


Coronation Party

by sigmalied



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/F, Foursome - F/F/F/F, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-20 22:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11344500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigmalied/pseuds/sigmalied
Summary: Aria T'Loak has seized Omega after a bloody battle with the Patriarch, but the transition of power has been an utterly exhaustive ordeal. She finds herself so on edge that she can't even properly enjoy her own coronation party. In the end, only devoted company and some old-fashioned hedonism brings Aria relief.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The E rating shall take effect in the second chapter.

Within the smoky red haze, the victor rose on unstable legs. At her feet lied a massive and devastated form, bleeding into orange pools that glistened around islands of metal shrapnel and broken glass. This hue, as well as minor swirls of violet, beaded on her fingertips as she clutched a mass of warm flesh. When it stopped spasming it leaked as if to weep, dripping down in a solemn rain onto the bereaved chest of its origin. 

Severed wires popped and flailed while small electrical fires crackled meekly. She was breathing hard, each rattling heave of her chest labored and painful, while her drained biotics flickered over her skin like the lights above her head. She began to move her legs, hearing glass crunching beneath her heels, and sniffed, tasting her own blood as it streamed down her nose, lips, and chin. 

The club was eerily silent. Everyone had frantically evacuated when Aria and her forces came storming into the district where they viciously warred for her right to challenge the warlord of Omega’s ruling syndicate in single combat, with the prize implicitly known: de facto supremacy.

She could almost still hear his enraged roars. How he claimed to have personally elevated her from obscurity, and fought grisly wars with her. He had always known Aria would betray him one day, as any worthy warrior might once they outgrew their commanders, but he hadn't realized the day would come so soon. He said he should have slit her throat earlier, back when his best men had never even dreamed of deserting him to flock to her side. But it was far too late now.

As Aria limped through the corridor of holographic flame, heading straight for the front entrance, she caught her reflection in the polished floor. Dark exhaustion shadowed her eye sockets and her bloody nose was worse than she had thought. Bringing her forearm up, she wiped away what she could, determined to present to her people a face of glory. 

Memories of the fight still ricocheted about her head like an aggravated insect hive, ringing incessantly. 

He had charged at her - a broad and plated wall of sheer force. Seized her around the middle, each arm as wide as her waist and capable of snapping her in half like a toothpick, and slammed her down onto a table. The impact would have broken her back if she hadn’t preemptively cushioned herself with biotics. 

She was ready to counter the moment she launched herself from the debris with a powerful strike, her right fist glowing bright cobalt as she gripped the collar of his armor and smashed her knuckles into his jaw. If he were not krogan, she would have shattered bone. 

They exchanged blows for what had seemed like hours, each primed to kill. He was a monster. Indefatigable, enormous, and furious; eagerly providing clear and distinct evidence as to how he had held Omega for so many decades. But Aria had fought with him in the past, killed with him, learned from him and memorized his tendencies. She was faster and smarter than he had ever been. 

Inevitably he fell, but he proved an invigorating adversary. Every glancing blow had made Aria’s blood simmer with adrenaline as she taunted and evaded death again and again. When he dropped his guard for an instant, greedy for a chance to crack Aria’s tiny skull open against the sharp edge of an entertainment stage, she ducked and buried a lance of biotics deep into his chest, tearing through a tender section of his thick plates where she carved herself a gory true path. She remembered how he screamed, how her nails pierced and twisted, sawed into major arteries, and extracted her trophy. 

At the end of the burning hall she emerged from the tongues of flame and into light. Many blood-lusting eyes awaited the triumphant killer of lords, and when they saw the figure of Aria T’Loak standing at the summit of Afterlife’s steps with its virtual inferno towering high above her head like a blazing crown of fire, they marveled. 

She outspread her arms to welcome her due ovation, wearing her stains of battle with pride. Ecstatic shouts erupted from her supporters, and shortly after there came a reluctant but uniform wave of kneeling from her disgraced foes as they submitted themselves to their station’s next ruler. 

Her eyes carried an incendiary gleam. From her gaze her subjects could glimpse raw ambition coiling in her body like a nascent sun. She would lead them into a new dawn where blood and credits would flow plentifully, one where pleasure awaited those who loved her and death awaited those who defied her rule. 

One where _Aria_ would be a name to fear and adore.

* * *

Five days were required to restore Afterlife to an operational state, but several more were required to satisfy Aria’s preferences. Staff was gutted and replaced to her liking. Dancers were shuffled around and assigned new shifts. The club's track list was entirely reconstructed from the ground up, overseen by Aria herself, whose approval was unequivocally required before they could be committed to the music rotation. And Aria ordered the private lounge and penthouse to be completely refurbished. She wanted to see absolutely nothing that bespoke her predecessor, for it was no longer his Omega. It was _Aria’s_ Omega. 

On the day Afterlife was scheduled to reopen to the station’s public, Aria announced a party, aptly dubbed her _coronation party_. 

Prior to the party, she had bathed and dressed executively to conceal her fading bruises, with her wrists and neck demarcating the only regions where her skin emerged from a designer brand ensemble. How her muscles and flesh still vaguely ached from her battle was knowledge she did not want to distribute among her subjects, not when her reign was so young and attractive to fellow usurpers who would love to cowardly strike while her syndicate was vulnerable. 

Aria held court on her new throne: a long and luxurious crimson couch to replace the unremarkable black leather seating she had dumped into an incinerator like a bulbous coffin. Anyone who mattered and was not already indebted to another rival organization brought to her throne gifts and oaths of fealty, expecting the new ruler to exert herself through austere, sensible business during a period of transitioning power. She pleasantly surprised them upon dismissal by inviting them to indulge in her celebration with drinks set at a remarkable discount. Those who were inclined to partake in such debauchery joined the chaos building below the lounge, where tides of inventive music surged and the dance floors rolled like open ocean currents under a red moon. Her mercenaries certainly had their hands full with keeping relative peace for the sake of a good time, but Aria had a reputation to establish.

She would not permit anyone to think her insolvent or miserly. That's wasn't how her Omega functioned. Aria’s Omega was destined to be a fountain of wealth and opportunity for those who esteemed her. She would do well to reflect such abundance in her gestures.

However, sitting stiffly for a few hours while meeting her vassals did no favors for her physical comfort. Hints of aggravation slithered into her tone when addressing her most recent wave of guests, so she closed access to her lounge early, deciding that she deserved to relieve her embittering mood with some pleasure. Entertainment befitting a queen.

A premium selection of liquors, wines, and imported fruits were brought to her after sending a guard off with her desires. Another she tasked with fetching her most favored company.

Three dancers. Ones she’d known and entrusted her seditious plans to for years. They had been instrumental to Omega’s seizure; plying their talents, discretion, and wiles to an extent where Aria could not fathom the numerical sum of mercenaries and officers they had swayed personally and through the extensive influence of their contacts. All while the broader station thought them purely ornamental, that their purpose was a flexible spine and a cute face. 

Aria had demanded much of them, but she had every intention to give a great deal back to them. More so than just tripling their previously paltry wages.

She had already downed a full glass of batarian whiskey and was currently clutching her second when Mireia arrived, emerging from the floor beneath the lounge after tearing herself away from the revelers to accept a superior offer. She strutted toward Aria in her dancing bodysuit, proudly presenting all the valleys of her scenic curves, windows of deep blue flesh, and long legs ending in heels that accentuated their shapely splendor. Mireia raised an inquisitive brow when she saw the drinks and fruit. 

Aria tilted her chin upward to silently greet her. 

They had not spoken since days before the final siege, but Mireia grasped the enormity of Aria’s ascent to power and afforded her a humored curtsy upon approach; respecting her, but unable to resist capitalizing on their familiarity. 

“Aria, you sly devil," she said. “You have him caged.”

Mireia was referring to the krogan held captive below, not contained in a real cage, but one made of humiliation and trained guns. They were parading the shattered warlord around as if he still held clout, and he had stupidly subscribed to the delusion. _Patriarch_ , he proudly grumbled his new title, ignorant of its origin. Aria had mutilated the term _matriarch_ by slapping on the recently-invented conjugation asari used for males of other species, essentially creating a new word that happened to translate favorably for him but only brought scoffs to the lips of her people. It was an abomination. A farce. It suited him.

Aria smirked and held an arm out, beckoning Mireia to join her on the couch. Mireia obliged by sliding her waist into Aria’s waiting grasp, letting herself be reeled in close to her new queen. She recognized the honor.

After setting her hand on the warm curve of Mireia’s hip, Aria spoke arrogantly against the side of her head, “Do you know why he’s still around? Why I didn’t bother to put him out of his misery?”

“Why?” Mireia took her bait.

“Because I wanted to give Omega something interesting to look at. To help them understand what I do to people who get in my way.”

Aria had known Mireia since she regarded the dancer’s lounge and dressing room as a second home. There she once smoked cigarettes with her coworkers and effortlessly charmed them with the unnerving ferocity behind her collected speech. Aria had frightened and comforted them simultaneously, instilling in the dancers a unique attachment to her that could not be shaken. 

Within a few years, they had all come to love Aria, and she _knew_ they loved her the entire time. Some would try to steal time alone with her, just to talk to her, to shiver beneath her disarming gaze a while, to wrap themselves in the guileful warmth of her voice. Others would insatiably grip at her clothes and kiss her when the wanting mood coursed her body language, or invite her to bed.

Aria drove them crazy. They would do anything for her, and _had_. For so many, Aria taking Omega’s helm was a dream worth sacrificing a great deal for. 

Mireia, specifically, had never been one to melt easily beneath Aria’s attentions, whereas certain others reduced to a puddle at the first stray touch. Albeit unwaveringly loyal, Mireia had always been difficult, removed, and deemed a bit of a tedious _bitch_ by many who met her. Perhaps it was why Aria had invited her anyway, wanting an opportunity to see that haughty shell disintegrate in her hands. If there was ever a night for thawing her, this was it.

That belief was reinforced doubly as Aria indulged her by pouring a tall glass of brandy whose volume was worth weeks of salary. She sipped from it first before relinquishing it to the dancer, then so kindly pressed a small oval berry to her lips simply to watch them receptively part for her. The intimacy between them pulled at something deep in her abdomen. A potent cocktail of anticipation and blooming arousal. She knew Mireia would yield like this again with some careful persistence and good incentive.

The second dancer Nyrissa arrived shortly after, slinking and breathtakingly pretty. And she was highly aware of her appeal, flaunting herself wherever she could. Aria had, admittedly, always appreciated and sympathized with such self-awareness.

While Mireia’s fondness for Aria was tame with seasonal highs and lows, Nyrissa’s appetite for her was perennial. Rumors propagating among the dancers had placed her at numerous scenes, including brief trysts in the changing rooms as a salve for unease when Nyrissa was still new to the job, and wandering hands after the night's final shift, nervous no longer. The rumors sometimes ran platonic, too, from filing nails in the lounge to testing expensive perfume samples on each other's wrists. While Aria never bothered to confirm nor deny any rumors pertaining to their habits or behavior, if there was ever a dancer used to evidence the degree of awe and interest Aria could garner, she would have cited Nyrissa. 

Nyrissa knelt when she arrived, saying “Your Majesty,” with glad reverence. She asked to kiss Aria's hand, and when she decided to allow her, Nyrissa kissed her knuckles twice before sitting at Aria’s unoccupied side. 

“How are you, Aria?” she asked her, her voice drawling and invested in every word she sewed for her. “I couldn’t wait to see you again… I love what you’ve done with the club. And the lounge. It suits you.” She leaned in closer to Aria’s side. 

“I’m well,” Aria flatly replied. She poured a third drink for her new guest while Mireia ate from a small dish of berries, appearing bored with Nyrissa’s arrival.

“You seem stiff,” Nyrissa observed, finding Aria’s terse reply and her coiled motions telling. She sipped from her glass as soon as she received it. “You’ve been working hard, haven’t you?” With her spare hand, Nyrissa stroked the back of Aria’s wrist where it lay against her ribs.  

Aria afforded her a temporary but informative stare, confirming her suspicion without words. But rather than address it directly, Aria changed topic and spoke of the party. The two dancers reported a terribly good time. The entertainment was top-notch, the drinks flowed endlessly, and the music was thrillingly raucous. The only qualm they had was of the occasional handsy patron who would earn the well-aimed spike of a heel in their face, thinking they would be immune to consequence within the swelling crowds, into which one might vanish without a trace. 

Tardiest of all the invited dancers was Rashira, flirting dangerously with the idea of making Aria wait and loving the risk of consequence terribly. Judging by the black bathrobe tied about her waist, she had been on her break and _finished_ her break before joining them. But Aria was too distracted by the warmth of close company and the prospect of having even more, to reprimand her. 

Rashira was glamorous, with a face befitting cinema posters. A timeless composition of classy features, slate eyes, and a cool temperament defined her beauty, but these qualities belied a great danger pounding beneath her skin. She was one of the best commandos Aria had ever acquired, and she had experienced her firsthand when the other dancers challenged them to spar, thinking them evenly matched. Aria had reaffirmed her experience and skill by defeating her conclusively, but Rashira’s relative youth promised impressive future ability. If Aria hadn’t kept her dancing and spying she would have put her on the front lines in a heartbeat. But at her request, Rashira remained close to the heart of Aria’s young syndicate as an equally valuable resource, where she was entrusted to protect its leadership while ostensibly entertaining. 

“Having a more private party over here, Aria?” she asked, smiling at the empty glasses, the half-full bottles jutting crookedly out of their ice buckets, the dishes of succulent refreshments, and how Aria filled her hands with flesh. “And I’m invited? Is there any room left for me?”

Aria felt the interior of her chest grow tight when she heard that voice, low with depth and sensual range. “There’s room for you right here,” she replied, sounding faultlessly insouciant, superior. She indicated her lap with a dip of her chin and a fleeting line of sight. 

When Rashira arrived she was poorly hiding a smile. She took her privileged seat, deliberately off-center to straddle one of Aria’s thighs. As soon as she had settled in, Aria’s arm came forward to encircle her waist. Fingers idly played at the robe’s belt and she pushed her thigh up, just once and briefly to gauge Rashira’s reaction. Aria was pleased to feel her reciprocally press back down against her. 

The lounge was reliably penetrated by throbbing music, clarity muffled and reduced. They drank copiously together but managed not to lose their heads.

They celebrated and congratulated Aria. Flattered her with talk of her biotic ability, her deadly intellect, her artistic visions for the club and the station as a whole. They praised her generously. Save for Mireia, who was reticent, but that was merely her nature.

Aria did not once lie to herself about her desires. She wanted to release the maddening pressure building in her body from lingering injury and involuntary abstinence in wake of all the administrating she had conducted at the expense of personal pleasure. Just to get things right, to get them _perfect._ To Aria, the last week had felt like using her bare hands to facet an uncut diamond. Unwinding had suddenly become a very pressing need.

She wanted to fuck them, _badly_ , and her dancers seemed quite amenable to that path. But Aria wanted to have her preliminary fun, at least for as long as her patience held out.

To distract herself a while, Aria presented to them an image slideshow on a datapad. “I have three favored candidates,” she explained, and dropped a few names of the most respected designers that side of the galaxy. 

Nyrissa, who had been feathering her lips along Aria’s neck, following her whenever Aria tilted her head and adjusted against her other sources of attention, paused to offer some feedback. “I like that white one, the one that ends at your ribs.” She kissed Aria beneath her jaw, who pinched at the underside of her thigh in penalty. A hushed whimper left Nyrissa before she smiled and provided an explanation. “I like it because we’d be able to see your stomach, and it’s always a shame when you hide it.”

Pushing her luck, Nyrissa let her hand rove to Aria’s abdomen where she tried to slip beneath her clothes. This time, fingernails pinched her hard enough to make her yelp. Just as before, she smiled unabashedly into Aria’s shoulder.

Aria raked her nails over the tender spots she’d left beneath her thigh, discouraging further impetuous affections not instigated by herself. She addressed Mireia instead, who lounged with her legs lazily overlapping both Rashira’s and Aria’s. “They’re all nice,” came Mireia's divested reply, ineffectively disguised as genuine. 

“Bored, Mireia?” 

Aria scalded her with a stare. Mireia barely managed to hold fast. Eyes still locked with hers, Aria applied a hand to the front of Rashira’s throat and guided her back until her head rested against Aria’s unoccupied shoulder. She held her there facing upward, keeping the hand wrapped around her neck. At last Aria averted her penetrating gaze to look at Rashira and ask, “Maybe you’ll be of more use to me. Tell me which jacket was your favorite. Tell me which one you stared at the longest.” 

Humming dreamily at the way Aria handled her, Rashira answered, “Mmm, I agree with Nyrissa. I could get used to seeing you in that white one.”

Blue eyes darted up to confirm Mireia was still watching them. Aria tightened her grasp on Rashira as she brought her in closer, applying just enough pressure to burden each breath she drew. Once Rashira closed her eyes and relaxed, Aria pressed a thumb into a luscious bottom lip, softly at first, then insistently, until Rashira parted her lips and admitted her. Her thumb dipped past briefly, scraping against teeth. Wanting more, Aria removed her thumb and offered her index and middle finger in substitute, slipping them into Rashira’s mouth without needing to explicitly direct her.

Aria looked at Mireia again. Her eyes were beginning to cloud as she watched Rashira suck on her fingers. With both hands preoccupied, Aria did not stave off Nyrissa when she pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, the first of many that followed. Gently, Aria pushed her slender fingers forward, sliding them past Rashira’s lips to the second knuckle. She parted her own lips, almost imperceptibly in voiceless appreciation as she savored the sight and sensation. 

“Mireia’s bored,” Aria iterated, receiving a small sound of acknowledgement from the dancer leaving kisses on the folds of her neck. “If she’s bored, we should entertain her.” Again her gaze lifted, almost aggressive in her expression for a fleeting second. She slowly withdrew her digits from Rashira’s mouth, then pressed them forward again. Rashira softly moaned as Aria repeated the motion and gave her throat a considerate squeeze. Contented by her compliance, Aria removed her fingers, tilted her chin toward her, and whispered, “Would you like to kiss me?”

“Very much,” Rashira breathlessly answered. She might have leaned in to attempt it if Aria were not still holding her throat.

“Then you’ll have to fight off Nyrissa for the right.” Aria reached back to clutch at the mentioned dancer, seizing her by the front of her bodysuit harshly enough to draw the material uncomfortably taut around her shoulders and chest. “And she has to earn it from now on too, because I’m not just Aria anymore. I’m your _queen,_ and I want you to propitiate me.”

Nyrissa wasn't discouraged. She continued to kiss Aria wherever she was within craned reach, until Aria released both her and Rashira and pushed them up from the couch.

“I want you both over there, on the floor.” With a dismissive flick of her hand, Aria indicated the space immediately below her throne’s perch on the steps. She watched them obey, but when they stood abreast and faced her, Aria repeated, “On the _floor_. Kneel.”

Despite Aria’s forceful tone, both Nyrissa and Rashira struggled to hide matching smiles as they sank lower, setting their knees down on the unforgiving, hard polished floor where they awaited Aria’s next orders.

“Spar for it,” Aria commanded. “No biotics, and stay on the floor. The first one to pin the other… I’ll allow to kiss me, anywhere you’d like.”

Their eyes lit up at the promised reward.

“And be creative. I want to be entertained.”

They required no further direction. Within a second they were grappling at each other, and Rashira had already achieved the upper-hand when she twisted one of Nyrissa’s arms behind her back, who whined and gasped, “ _Fuck_ , it’s not a fair fight,” while trying to thrash free. 

“So work harder and _make_ it fair,” said Aria. “Or do you think I’m not worth your effort?”

Adequately encouraged, Nyrissa lashed out with her free arm and captured a fistful of Rashira’s robe. She pulled hard enough to send Rashira lurching forward into the floor, at which moment Nyrissa secured her freedom and pursued her. Rashira rolled over in time to defend herself, and there they fought passionately for a captivated audience.

“Are you entertained yet, Mireia?” Aria asked her, peering over at the dancer. Still she carried distance in her expression, but now it only served to shield her true response to the spectacle. “Now that you've seen what I can get on a whim, are you not impressed?”

“I… might be impressed,” she admitted.

“Would you like to join them for the same reward?”

Mireia’s fog of cognitive absence dissipated. She met Aria’s eyes and stubbornly returned to her typical disinterest by stating, “I haven’t had nearly enough to drink for that.”

Aria wasn’t deterred by her attitude. She knew she would have her soon enough. Turning back to the writhing entanglement of limbs on the floor, Aria devoured the sight of Rashira’s robe coming loose. Her supple blue shoulders were spilling out of it, and she could see the tops of her breasts. Evidently impatient, Rashira managed to extend her arms beneath Nyrissa’s and curled around them until she could put pressure on the back of her head with both palms, forcing her to yield until she was prone on the floor. Nyrissa cried out and flailed uselessly, unable to strike at her target. In desperation, blue light flickered along her skin as she prepared to execute a reversal technique. Aria was quick to intervene as soon as she saw it.

“If I see your biotics again I’ll put a dampening collar on you,” Aria hissed.

Nyrissa heeded the threat with a shudder, then aimed a few words of profanity at Rashira, whose grip she could not escape. The verbal attack only made her opponent smile and say, “You can’t win this one, Nyrissa. Why don’t you give up while I’m still being gentle?” To emphasize her point, she applied a brief but harsh push to her head. Nyrissa’s cheek was braced firm against the floor, and her knees and the toes of her high heels scraped clumsily along the surface as she sought nonexistent purchase.

“Where do you want to kiss me, Nyrissa?” 

She heard her queen’s voice and tried to see her, but could not while trapped beneath Rashira. To her best ability she answered. Although her voice strained, the occupants of the lounge could interpret, “Your breasts.”

“Why?”

“They’re beautiful...”

The words nearly sounded grieved, suggesting that Nyrissa was beginning to accept imminent defeat and the consequential loss of her reward.

Taking pity on her, Aria regarded Mireia and said, “Why don’t you even the field a little?” She gestured with her head at the bucket of melting ice that once contained their drinks. “Would that entertain you?”

Mireia contemplated for a moment before deciding that it would. She uncrossed her legs and rose, gripped the bucket by its handle, and made her way over to the wrestling pair. Without warning, she tipped the container over, spilling freezing water and slush onto Rashira’s back. A loud gasp was heard, immediately followed by a cry of shock. But she had physically recoiled, and Nyrissa took the opportunity afforded her. She escaped her hold, turned around, and wrapped her fingers around Rashira’s wrists. After pushing her down to the floor, she straddled her hips. Unfortunately for Nyrissa, her victory was short-lived. Rashira maneuvered her legs around Nyrissa’s and flipped them over, eliciting a shriek when her back splashed into the shallow puddle of ice water. 

Aria was happily absorbed by the show they were putting on for her until the grating chime of her omni-tool sounded on her wrist. After uttering a vile curse beneath her breath, she accepted the call out of pure responsibility. Ignoring a legitimate emergency was a risk she would not take.

_“Aria, there’s this guy down here who really wants to talk to you. Says he’s—“_

“Funny.” Aria cut off her mercenary the moment she realized the meager importance of the update. “I thought I specifically said I didn’t want to be disturbed until further notice.”

_“I—Sorry, Aria. It won’t happen again.”_

“See to it that it doesn’t.” Upon closing the communication window, Aria felt herself riled again. Her lethal tone was enough to scare away her mercenaries for the remainder of the night, but they had already ruined her good time by angering her just as she was starting to really unwind. But Aria would not allow herself an easily-perturbed temperament. She was resourceful, and could obviate any setback. 

“Rashira,” she said. Her frustration left a rough edge about her tone. “Where do you want to kiss me?” Beside her, Mireia had returned to her spot on the couch and looked wickedly satisfied with the chaos she had ignited.

“Oh Aria,” Rashira began. She was lightly shivering, her robe damp and her forearms visibly slick. “I think you’d appreciate it more if I kept it a secret. At least until I win.”

“Then you’d better win. Because if you don’t, I may not let you kiss me at all tonight.”

Invigorated by the condition, Rashira was quick to place Nyrissa back into the hold she executed previously. True to her word, she was aggressive with her this time. She dug her knees into her sides and pushed her face into the floor where Nyrissa coughed against the scattered streaks of water. Nyrissa impotently tried to kick, but even that mode of resistance was stolen from her when Rashira pushed her kneecaps into the backs of her thighs until discomfort dipped past threshold of pain. She sobbed.

Eventually, Nyrissa conceded. Rashira released her without delay, hardly able to wait any longer for Aria to give her what she promised. Leaving Nyrissa where she lie sore and inglorious on the floor, Rashira sauntered up the short series of steps leading to the couch. She made no attempt to fix her robe, possibly preferring to see Aria’s attention drift. When she arrived she paused to serenely ask her, “May I have my reward… my _queen?”_

“You may,” said Aria.

Unabashedly, Rashira dropped back to her knees, placed one loving hand beneath Aria’s left knee, raised it, and draped it over her sopping shoulder. If the thick heel of Aria’s boot thudding against her shoulder blade while positioning her brought on any appreciable discomfort, Rashira did not show it. Rashira reached forward to untuck Aria's dress shirt and slip her hands beneath it, fitting them securely in the curves of her waist. Aria sharply inhaled and drew her bottom lip between her teeth at the agonizing icy touch. Not wanting Mireia to witness her reaction - thinking her undeserving of it - she released her lip and let Rashira proceed in silent exhilaration. Rashira leaned in without any further delay, evidently sensitive to Aria’s impatience, and pressed her mouth against the seam of her pants, firmly and dotingly, to help her feel the pressure of the caress through her clothes. 

Aria had anticipated the action, but when it actually occurred she found herself scrambling to maintain impassiveness. An irresistible heat was pooling between her legs, paralleling the warmth of the head nestled there, and the sensation was only further enhanced by the contrasting chill on her bare skin. It required immense effort to smother down her raging urge to move, to unbuckle her pants and have Rashira do it _properly,_ to slip her tongue and fingers into her and thrust until she felt exquisite, when knowing she would love to comply as soon as she was directed.

Her arousal grew ever more insistent the longer Rashira relished her reward, and when she hummed, Aria curled her fingers against the smooth upholstery of her couch, searching for something to cathartically sink her nails into. 

She wanted to fuck her girls now more than ever, but Aria effaced her desires behind eminent poise and patience. Soon enough Rashira retreated from Aria and rose, letting her fingertips glide seductively along her knees after using them as leverage. Their eyes met.

“Thank me,” Aria demanded. “Have some manners.”

A roguish smile tugged at Rashira’s lips. “Thank you, Aria.” 

Nearby, Nyrissa was desolated by envy. She wasn’t even complaining about the ice water any more, opting to frown and look miserable. 

Aria routinely described herself as a creature of great generosity. When she noticed Nyrissa mourning her inability to please her queen, she said to her, “Would you like another chance to win your privilege?”

Nyrissa nodded with enthusiasm.

“Then we’ll need somewhere more comfortable to do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just Aria circa 1980 having a wild time...

The penthouse was nothing like it was when the Patriarch inhabited it. Aside from a sizable but otherwise unmemorable bed, he had once filled the interior with weapons and armor lockers, decorated furniture with garish trophy skulls and serrated daggers and ryncol bottles, and cluttered the bleak simplicity of the walls with projected diagrams delineating his standing with various allies and enemies. When Aria had visited as he briefed her on the skirmish she would be entering and commanding that afternoon, she had committed the unconcealed information to memory.

He had unlocked part of his armory and dropped into her arms the heaviest shotgun she had ever held, and chucked at how the mass suddenly pulled her limbs downward until she adjusted to its surprising weight. 

“When krogan go to war with each other,” he had said, “ _this_ is what they bring. It’s one step below heavy flamethrowers. If you want to take it for a spin, make sure to use your biotics to counter the recoil. Otherwise, fired by a little asari like you… it might rip your arm right out of the socket.”

Aria too kept a flexible arsenal in a locker, to be accessed for locational convenience or emergency. That shotgun was the only relic of Patriarch left in it, and by extension, left in the entire penthouse. She kept it because it was useful; precisely the same reason why she had kept its previous owner.

Everything else had been either trashed or returned to him, leaving Aria to proudly admire her transformed, livable quarters. _More_ than livable, she silently boasted while eyeing the modern furnishings, tasteful decor, and directorate cleanliness. A single long window granted a magnificent view of the station’s eclectic architecture, and the light it emitted through the blinds bathed the room in slats of rich, metallic bronze. All her worldly possessions were veneered and contained within the best real estate for light-years around. 

It was indeed a fabulous space to retire to, but it looked magnitudes better with the lovely Mireia and Nyrissa on her floor, both ferociously competing for the right to undress Aria and kiss her bare skin - a considerable hike in stakes since the last engagement. 

Aria could tell that the desire to participate had been crept into Mireia’s mind as she watched Rashira and Nyrissa, but she had been inhibited by sobriety and the obvious opinion that jumping through Aria’s hoops for crumbs was embarrassing and beneath her. The dancer’s impressive cost-benefit analysis convinced Aria to increase the terms of her reward. With one more shared drink and a heated promise whispered tenderly against her cheek, Mireia was convinced. 

“Well, since you’ve never been known for platitudes and empty promises,” Mireia had purred while leisurely striding over to Nyrissa, whose pretty figure stood roasting in the dismal light near the foot of Aria’s bed, “maybe having a little fun isn’t completely out of the question. Plus, I get a chance to bully this one around.” With a shove directed at Nyrissa’s shoulder, she had her indignantly staggering and toppling to the floor.

Aria lounged on her bed with another cool glass of whiskey in hand and Rashira acting as her backrest. After disqualifying her for winning the prior round and assigning her a new task, Rashira had shed her damp robe and began rubbing her fingers into Aria’s neck and shoulder muscles, assuaging the cumulated stiffness in her flesh as the queen played supreme arbiter of the match before them. 

"Tell me," Rashira began in a whisper. Aria felt her soft lips against her shoulder. "Which do you want more?" 

Aria smiled and hummed as Rashira rubbed her thumbs into her back _just right,_ releasing an evasive knot of tension. Against her neck, Rashira gently asked her which she thought was better in bed. Who touched her better, who got her off quicker, who tasted sweeter or sounded prettier.

But Aria thought both Nyrissa and Mireia desirable and chose no favorite, just as any decent mistress would not. With a sigh of laughter told Rashira this, and that she would have both of them soon enough anyway.

At her answer, Rashira’s doting hands dipped from her shoulders to her back, pressed into the tight cords of muscle bordering her spine, then moved lower still. Aria sharply inhaled and nearly spilled her drink when she felt her firmly groping and kneading her backside.

Under normal circumstances, Aria would have sent her away for being presumptuous, but when Rashira whispered against the side of her head, “Relax… Let me help you _relax_ ,” in her seductively low tones, she decided to be amenable. Even if she _was_  making her wet - an unfortunate side effect for Aria’s stoicism as an impartial judge, but perhaps expedient when she held the rest of the night in mind. For the present, Aria managed to keep quiet and still as she monitored the two dancers.

Raking her fingernails down Nyrissa’s back was Mireia, who fought _dirty_ , with obscene imprecations, feints, and cunning use of her environment. She was still pristinely dressed in her dancing bodysuit and heels, denying Aria the show she wanted unless she was compensated upfront. And then there was Nyrissa. Poor girl, Aria thought with derision. Though determined, she was yet again at an incredible disadvantage, trying everything she could to withstand the greater experience of her coworkers. Not even swiftly undressing to prevent Mireia from using her bodysuit as a grappling point could save her. Mireia simply seized the limp sleeves, forced Nyrissa’s hands behind her back, and restrained her with a makeshift knot at the first opportunity. Rendered defenseless and distraught on the floor, Nyrissa was summarily defeated.

Mireia’s strategy was indecorous, but Aria had not prohibited her techniques. She downed the rest of her drink and waited a short while to ensure Nyrissa was truly incapacitated beyond all hope of recovery, unwilling to afford her more than five seconds or else Aria feared Rashira’s touch would roam again by that time. Preserving herself for the winner, who had entertained and honored her, was the least she could do. But when Mireia confidently met her eyes, Aria could wait no more.

“Come here,” she commanded, “and claim your reward.” 

The leveled control of her voice was faltering under the duress of her own inflamed needs. Aria felt sensitive against her clothes and her willpower was at its fraying end. Unfortunately, Mireia sensed this. Her svelte figure was slow to arrive at Aria’s bedside, happy to boil, or rather effervesce, in the queen’s stare and the knowledge of being wanted. Judging by her expression, performing for Aria was already worth the reward of seeing her so wound up.

As soon as she was within reach, Aria grabbed her wrist and issued another demand. “Undress me.”

Mireia smiled, settling down on the bed with her where she began unhurriedly unlacing her boots. She neatly set them aside, then indulged in a lengthy pause to ponder her next target.

“What about me?” Nyrissa pleaded from the floor. 

Aria glanced at her and replied, “You stay right there, _quietly_ , until I say otherwise.” Her attention returned to Mireia in time to see her grasp Rashira’s wrists, peel them off Aria’s body, and flick them away as if they were a minor nuisance. 

Her shirt next came under her focus. Hands passed over Aria’s breasts, and Mireia delayed to palm and squeeze them through her clothing. She moved closer and kissed her chest, soon preoccupying herself with biting her.

“If you don’t pick up the pace,” Aria growled in warning, “you’ll end up just like Nyrissa. You have ten seconds before I tie you to the bedpost like a fucking figurehead.”

Aria’s shirt came off without any further stalling, as did the belt of her pants, but Mireia tempted fate again by sliding her hands lower and letting them delve past the front of Aria's pants. Aria’s hand darted for her wrist, wrapping her fingers tightly around it while Mireia teased her. She stroked her through her underwear with deliberate rhythm, to demonstrate what she was capable of giving. Aria’s fingernails dug acute crescents into Mireia’s skin.

“I thought you’d be a bit more fun tonight,” Mireia purred through a wince. She leaned over Aria, letting her hands massage and explore their way between her thighs. “But I guess you’re all business.”

The attention had Aria fisting a hand in the sheets. She glared at Mireia as if tempted to murder her. Aria would never - not for this - but sometimes reveries of bloodlust and ones of sex cast similar shadows while swimming about her head. She hated being teased. Hated it so much it turned her on. Indignity and desire dually flared up in her core, drove her hips forward in search of more pressure.

As much as she was frustrated with her disobedience, Aria had always liked Mireia, and not just because she liked watching her dance through the ground glass and cycling hazy lights of the lounge. She liked Mireia because she uncannily reminded her of herself at times. How she was prone to deviously play with her desserts before she devoured them completely and utterly, leaving no morsel behind and sharing nothing with no one. And now, she looked particularly famished.

Mireia retrieved her hands. "And as much as I wanted to keep making this difficult for you…” She pulled Aria's pants down her legs, along with her underwear, and helped her out of them. “I don’t want to miss out on my reward.” 

As soon as Aria was bare, Mireia urged her to the edge of the bed, knelt, and wetted her lips with unconcealed desire. She reached up to hold onto Aria’s hips and draped a leg over her shoulder, resting the lean muscle of her thigh beside her head.

Within a heartbeat Aria felt her tongue against her, sampling how ready she was to receive her servile attention. The soft heat of contact nearly made her tremble. She knew Mireia had found her deliciously dripping and welcoming her touch, the product of spending so much time suffering in self-imposed denial, but Aria still wanted to orchestrate. “Kiss me,” she said. “Only kiss me.” Her fingernails anchored themselves in Mireia's crest.

At her command, Aria felt the warmth of Mireia’s full lips against her azure, kissing her mindfully and lavishly. Mireia cradled her hips in her hands and massaged the flare of her pelvis with her thumbs, inviting Aria to press herself against her mouth as much as she desired. When Mireia moaned, Aria reciprocated one in answer as the vibration impaled her with pleasure, radiating from her sex to her spine, and to her rib cage where it robbed her lungs of breath.

The slick sound and sensation of her lips caressing between her thighs, soft and wet and swollen with effort, blurred Aria’s thoughts to an incoherent smear of want. She requested her tongue again and an eager stroke parted her the moment the words left her, lapping at her arousal before slipping past her entrance when Mireia craved more than she had provided. Another moan emerged from Aria’s throat as she rocked her hips with building urgency, a motion that had Mireia sinking her tongue deeper inside where she gathered as much as she could coax and reach. 

Aria’s grip on her crest almost drew blood. Her inner walls shivered, preluding her approaching orgasm earlier than she anticipated, and the probability of finishing quickly was only amplified when Mireia took her between her lips and filled her with a pair of fingers, pumping them with such steady depth that her body seemed to hum in response. 

She was too fixated on Mireia's ministrations to keep Rashira at bay when she leaned over her and pressed an amorous kiss to the side of Aria’s neck. One free hand reverentially stroked Aria’s quivering abdominal muscles while the other palmed and squeezed her breast, occasionally pinching the hard tip after rolling it beneath her fingers. 

“You’re so worked up.” Rashira’s sensual voice caressed her like velvet. She kissed her shoulder and jaw. “How long have you been waiting for us to take care of you?"

Mireia curled her fingers against a spot that brought Aria’s head tilting back into the mattress, her lips silently parted as a third digit slipped into her. The stretch was wonderful once a few convincing thrusts helped her acclimate to the addition. A curse stumbled past her lips. It was _good_ , almost too good. Aria was torn between letting Mireia carry her away and slowing things down to properly savor it. Beside her head, Rashira said she could smell and taste soap on her skin, like flowers, then sealed her mouth over an exposed region of her throat. 

Together they escorted Aria to her climax. She came hard and suddenly, expelling a ragged cry that nearly sounded pained while tightening involuntarily around the fingers inside her and trying to draw them deeper into herself. Her breaths were short and irregular as she rode Mireia’s insistent thrusts, forcibly extending the duration of her pleasure until Aria writhed and hoarsely demanded, _“Enough…”_

It felt as if she had fragmented, ceased to exist and existed _too much_ both at once. Only when her aftershocks tapered did proper sense fall back into her.

Sooner than she would have liked, Mireia removed her fingers, leaving Aria unacceptably empty. The dancer smoothly slid up from her kneeling position, running her hands over her naked thighs, hips, and waist, until she was resting atop Aria, confronting her. She slipped her fingers into her mouth, one after the other, to conceitedly taste evidence of the pleasure she had given her queen. To taunt her, provoke her. 

And it worked. The sight stirred Aria all over again. 

She grabbed at her wrist, pulling her fingers away from her mouth so she could seize Mireia’s lovely jaw and reel her in for a searing kiss. When their tongues met, Aria tasted a pungent mix of alcohol and herself.

Before their lips even parted Aria had pushed them both up, and was tugging at her bodysuit. She managed to free Mireia’s torso and drag the skintight material down past her hips where it collected in iridescent folds, but in her haste, Aria abandoned her efforts to swiftly walk her back to a decorative table against the wall. With a brusque swipe of her forearm Aria cleared it of datapads and stacked books before she hauled Mireia up by her thighs, set her onto its surface, and spread her graceful legs apart. Aria could not refrain a moment longer from pushing her fingers into the pouted, wanting flesh. Silky heat yielded to her as Mireia moaned and clawed at her back. Aria’s fingers parted her and delved deeply, reminding her of who she belonged to now, who loved her and would provide for her and protect her in a new uncertain era. 

Then Aria pulled out, leaving Mireia bereaved while she concentrated, sculpting her biotics to fill a solid shape she kept in mind, and once she had supplied it with the consistency of glass, she pushed into Mireia again. One slow stroke buried herself halfway. Mireia clutched at her, whimpering about its size as Aria gripped her hips with bruising force and eased herself deeper. She helped Mireia take her by lowering a hand between her legs. When she managed to envelop her completely, Aria used the opportunity to ask her how it felt.

Mireia decided, “Good, _really_ good.” She smoothed her hands admiringly over Aria’s shoulders to express her contentment with being at her aggressive mercy. And, as Aria interpreted, the end of her underwhelmed indifference. Having Aria buried within her, filling and stretching her so exquisitely, was apparently a diversion worthy of her interest. In her benevolence, she decided to not make her wait for her reward. 

She fucked her against the wall with vigor, tearing a litany of impassioned moans from her throat while nearly crushing her hips in her hands. Mireia’s heels scraped her back as she offered herself forward to meet the brutal pace, but she ultimately found herself unable to contend with Aria, whose hard thrusts braced her so closely to the wall she could no longer reposition herself at will. 

Aria was sure discipline herself despite her own inclination towards aggression, gauging Mireia’s receptiveness and signs of discomfort beyond those arisen from the precarious divide where pleasure ecstatically straddled pain. That was where Aria balanced her, where Mireia whined at the future bruises gathering on her pelvis while savoring how her inner walls fluttered around the column of biotics reaching places that reduced her to a trembling mess.

“Do I impress you now?” Aria breathed against her parted lips. A lax, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth.

Even as Mireia moaned with building pleasure, she held fast to the taunting recalcitrance that drove Aria mad. “Not quite… You’re not that much.”

Seeing her lips, plush and wet from overuse, Aria drew her bottom one between her teeth, bit down, and sucked on it while pounding her into the wall, producing a steady rhythm of muffled thuds each time her hips slammed her and the table back.

Watching intently with a glazed-over expression was Rashira, who reclined beside Nyrissa while propped up on an arm. She had decided to torture the poor thing for her own amusement.

They had preserved some ice from the lounge for Aria’s remaining bottle of whiskey. Rashira was periodically placing cubes along Nyrissa’s bare back just to watch her squirm and chew her lip to keep from speaking.

“I think Nyrissa wants to know when you’ll be done with Mireia,” Rashira nonchalantly addressed Aria. “She seems to want to be freed. Additionally, I’m interested in knowing when you’ll be done too. I’m starting to feel a little jealous.” Another ice cube was added to the small of Nyrissa’s back, making her pound one knee against the floor in distress as it began to melt and drip down her naked sides.

Aria grunted, meaning to reply, but she had to wait a few seconds for her head to clear of its storminess before saying, “She stays there until I say so. And be patient… I want you next.” 

She saw Rashira biting into the side of her thumb and rubbing her legs together in anticipation, obviously pleased by her promise.

Upon lifting Mireia’s legs again, Aria pushed into the backs of her thighs until she could rest her calves over her shoulders and hold them there, then braced her hands against the wall for support as she took her roughly. Her breathing, where she held her face beside her dancer's neck, was hard and quick as if she were running, and her voice strained when she spoke, “You should come see me more often… What do you think, Mireia? I know I impress you.”

With her shoulders and the back of her crest slamming into the wall so often, and as the muscles in Aria’s thighs flexed as they forcefully met the bases of hers, Aria was pleased to see that Mireia could focus enough to formulate a complete sentence. “Only if you— _”_ Momentarily, Mireia found her lungs without air, and afterward struggled greatly to intersperse her vocalized pleasure with words. “Only if you… fuck me like… this again… _Ohh, Aria—”_

Aria bit into her succulent lip before releasing it with a tender kiss. “Good girl,” she breathed, in time to hear Mireia panting vulgarities and sinking her nails into her shoulder blades fiercely enough to pierce flesh. Deeming the moment adequate, Aria changed the angle of her hips, lowering herself before pressing up and toward her front while pulling Mireia to the edge of the table. The next few thrusts had Mireia crying out as she came. She shuddered, unable to move after Aria had peeled her abusive hands from her body and pinned her wrists above her head. She could only arch and allow Aria to assertively have her until she was finished. 

Her breathing began to calm. Aria leaned in to kiss her lips, each fleeting contact an unusually chaste conveyance of affection. She migrated to her neck, leaving similar soft caresses behind. 

When Aria skirted the edges of her conscience with her own, Mireia left herself wide open for entry. Aria was only there for a transient visit, but her presence was a hearth melting a wintry night.

Mireia liked it when she kissed her. It made the blissful endorphins suffusing her blood ever more sweeter. Aria evoked attachment from Mireia. Dependency and deference, to the point where she felt an abnormal pang of loss when Aria parted with her.

Aria returned her feet to the floor. Gravity saw her heels clicking down loudly, as she was still quite unable to muster any remaining stamina to utilize her legs more elegantly, and had to brace a hand against the table while finding her balance.

“Come here. Now.”

Aria had Rashira in her sight. While surgically carving her way through Mireia’s cold outer shell all evening had been profoundly satisfying, having a partner who could not wait to have her, who could _take_ what she gave well, while still having the capacity and libido to crave more, was irresistible. She didn’t need to repeat herself. When she summoned Rashira, there she was, already drifting between Aria and the bed with blatant invitation in her every sinuous move. 

She reached out to her, gripped both of Rashira’s wrists, turned her around, and held her hands together behind her back. After closing her teeth around a spot on her neck to impress upon her a shallow mark, Aria urged her to approach the bed until her knees brushed against the outer carmine sheets. She was bent over and permitted to rest atop its surface. Lower, Aria spread her legs and held them apart with her own, and a commanding hand settled on her hips to guide her into position. Aria might have just as easily denied her mobility with biotics, but she preferred to feel her strain and fluster more intimately.

“You make me tremble,” Rashira sighed. She rested her head on one side of her face so she could better speak to her. “Especially when you’re like this… When you're all _frustrated.”_

“When I’m rough with you?” Aria wanted to hear her explicitly confirm it.

“Mmm… Rough always gets me wet.”

She obliged her, and found Rashira’s claim of liking things rough to be perfectly veridical. Rashira moaned when Aria filled her, when she decided to be thick with her, and when she began harshly thrusting into her with one hand locked around her wrists and the other channeling her weight onto the base of her neck, holding her down firmly against the comfortable mattress. 

Raised, diverse scars scattered across her flesh reassured Aria. They reminded her that Rashira was no fragile blossom to be coddled, that she could endure her, and _liked_ to. 

She arched and gasped while she fucked her, and came so easily that Aria could not resist teasing her. Immune to all semblance of humiliation, Rashira bestowed her generous praise between shaky breaths, letting Aria know how her strength and expertise unraveled her faster than anyone else. Rashira reveled so thoroughly in her willing submissiveness that Aria grew unsure of who was conducting them in truth. Undoubtedly she was deriving far more pleasure than Aria, who labored to dull the sharp edge of her nerves and tire herself out, if only to a limited degree. 

The energy throbbing in her muscles seemed conditioned by her recent fights, instinctually bracing herself for additional violence, death, and hardship when there was none to be found in her penthouse. It steeled her body against her will and she didn’t know what to do with all the tension; resolving, in the end, to distribute it amongst her dancers in safe doses like a slow but constant release of a pressurized valve fit to burst.  

But even as the first pangs of fatigue needled her hips and legs, promising imminent exhaustion, the marrow-deep, all-consuming repose she pursued was still a very distant goal. Aggravated by this fact, Aria expended her remaining stamina on Rashira. She dug her nails into her skin while holding her in place, the pressure on the back of her neck only ever lifting to occasionally bring her hand down on her backside. Her dancer gasped as the sting, along with its implied punishment for a nonexistent, fantasy transgression, complimented her glowing pleasure. With a few vulgar words and her fingers wrapped around her neck, she brought her back to heights that had Rashira fretting; squeezing her thighs helplessly around those that held hers apart, and just as impotently squirming against the strong grip restraining her wrists as Aria made her come again, pulling her release from deep within her. Aria had her until she saw her inner thighs glisten and heard her voice start to break, but stopped before Rashira had to ask her to, knowing that even a commando maintained reasonable limits. 

She was sure to appreciate her in the same manner she had Mireia, with a brief dip in her thoughts. Occupying her with reassurances of vain providence and might, impelling Rashira to accept her more intimately than she just had. Rashira’s devotion was self-evident. She gave what Aria expected of her immediately, professing undiluted loyalty and acquiescence. When she finally released her and withdrew, Aria kissed her. Arms draped about her neck and Rashira stroked her skin wearily, but reverentially. One slid down the length of her arm to her wrist. It grasped and guided her hand between her legs, where the dancer effortlessly slipped two of Aria's fingers back into herself. Velvety warmth enveloped her digits, deliciously wet and still delicately fluttering around her, inviting her deeper. Aria gave a low hum of appreciation and bit into her lip, managing to defy the considerable temptation to have her again. 

There was still Nyrissa to worry about. She had been obedient and well-behaved. Despite her inadequacy as a combatant, Aria thought her time spent cast aside was deserving of recompense. Aria released her and brought her to the bed where she finished stripping her. Currently, Aria was not physically disposed to provide her the same treatment she had for Mireia and Rashira, so she defaulted to resting her head between her sleek thighs and helping herself to the taste of her. Aria’s hands roved to her breasts as she consumed her like a delicacy, a honeyed treat after a full course, and persevered there until Nyrissa could hardly offer her more.

With Nyrissa placated and indebted to her, and Aria having worn herself out to the point of passivity, she had Nyrissa lean over her and use her biotics. Anticipation consumed her when the end of the focused column pressed between her legs, and fingers curled about the red bedsheets as her dancer pushed into her with vibrating energy, solid and of variable width adjusted to Aria’s liking. Nyrissa held her waist as she sank deeper, coaxing a breathless groan from Aria's parted lips while she watched those lithe hips rock into her repeatedly, accompanied by the consistent, savory pressure of fullness. 

She tried to relax again, lying back as Nyrissa took care of her. Two more pairs of hands were upon her soon enough. They smoothed over her chest, her stomach, her legs, while lips frequently competed for the scarce resource of Aria’s mouth. They lavished her profusely. Kissed long stretches of flesh, fondled her with deft touches, and sent arms around her shoulders and waist in implicit proclamations of love, each believed to be the superior sentiment. 

It should have been enough for her, when she came. Her dancers coveted her, worshipped her, touched her exactly how she told them to. Gifted her a surfeit of visceral delights.

But she had not found relief. She was tenser than ever with building frustration as she tried to isolate the reason why she could not achieve the tepid enervation due to follow. While ruminating on this, Aria instructed Nyrissa to continue. It certainly _felt_ good. Nyrissa was talented enough to make her moan and scrape her nails against the skin of the dancers burying her. Yet her efforts still fell short, particularly upon complaining about how incredibly taxing it was to maintain an abnormal biotic formation for extended periods of time. 

By the time she came again, Aria sensed a natural inclination toward violence rearing in her prevailing discontent. She had to shut her eyes and rein it in before she inadvertently caused her bedmates harm. 

Rashira noticed. She was rubbing her collarbone and leaving tender kisses along its length to where it disappeared into her shoulder, when she gently grasped Aria’s jaw, directed her to face her, and kissed her. Drawing away, she whispered against her lips, “It’s not enough, is it?”

Aria stiffly swallowed, but kept herself composed even as she subtly shook her head in confirmation. Her reply brought a smile to Rashira’s face, not a malicious one, but rueful and knowing. She spoke again, just as quietly as before, and promised she would be back soon. Aria was too disappointed to contrive any reason to object, and Rashira departed the penthouse, leaving Mireia and Nyrissa to care for her in her absence.

She hardly noticed when Rashira returned, too preoccupied with telling Nyrissa _harder_ , to hold her hips roughly enough to bruise her. But hesitance and uncertainly had surfaced to foil every goading attempt Aria made. 

Unexpectedly, Rashira advised Nyrissa to stop. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Aria overrode her, keeping her legs securely folded around her dancer’s waist. “You don’t stop until I tell you to. And what gives _you_ the right?” She glared at Rashira, who returned her stare with dulled attention. 

“Nyrissa,” Rashira repeated, “Stop. You know you’re not getting anywhere like that. Help me with something.” She laid a hand on Nyrissa’s slender shoulder as it rose and fell in time with her hushed pants, and whispered to her.

To Aria’s immense disdain, Nyrissa withdrew from her after issuing an apologetic expression, apparently swayed by Rashira’s convincing. Before Aria could snap at them, however, the two collaborated in seizing Aria in well-trained arms, pulling her toward the edge of her bed, and lying her back down on her front, bent over the side. Aria lifted her face from the sheets she had fallen into and glimpsed the fascinated Mireia, who took no actions in her defense. It was not surprising to Aria at all that she would rather spectate than intervene.  

“Hold her,” she heard Rashira say. “Like I showed you. Do you understand?”

Aria went as stiff as a board when Nyrissa slipped her arms beneath and around hers, folding back until palms pressed against her nape. Just before she threw her off in a furious fit, Rashira said to her, “Aria… relax. I _promise_ you, it’ll be worth it.”

She breathed swiftly against the bed as every wrenching instinct inside her chest ran wild with emergent panic. Not even Rashira stroking and kissing her back could appease her, not while she was in such an indefensible position. The audacity of it all irritated her, admittedly aroused her, amplified her flightiness to the point where she was just as likely to demand they hurry up as she was to thrash free.

Aria closed her eyes, slowly exhaled, and tried to calm herself. 

“That’s perfect,” she heard Rashira say to the effect of praise, although it was far from the truth. 

She took Aria's hips into her hands, their presence deceptively unimposing. Something cool and blunt pressed against her, explicating the reason why Rashira had left: to find a convenient alternative for prolonged biotics. 

And it _was_ an acceptable solution. Aria’s fingers curled around air and scraped against her bedsheets when Rashira pushed into her, a bit too smoothly for her preference, but not even squeezing around it could impede her progress for long. It was thick and modestly textured to elevate her pleasure, and every stroke it gave against her inner walls, left accommodating from chasing her prior unfulfilling orgasms, tugged at the moan building in Aria’s throat. The sound tumbled from her lips when Rashira’s hips met the backs of her thighs, generously presenting to Aria the honed strength of a commando that her soft bearing belied. Aria forced herself to stay as relaxed as possible as she started to thrust into her, slowly at first but with ever-increasing confidence.

It was an arduous battle for her. There was a vague ebbing of discomfort in it; she still felt delicate and sensitive between her legs and the stretch and friction only heightened her awareness of it.

Aria’s fingernails bit into the skin of her own palms, furthering defining the crescent marks they left behind as Rashira went faster and Nyrissa held her down harder, actively smothering every sign of subversion she felt arise. Keeping her still and subdued whenever she began to fuss or stiffen, when she moaned into the bed to express the swirling amalgam of pleasure and agitation throbbing in her flesh. 

As she had many times before, Rashira breathlessly whispered _relax_ to her, ever faithful to the belief that Aria was capable of doing so. 

She was too obsessed with order and control, Rashira told her. She was wearing and stressing herself with too much at once, burdening herself with microscopic specifics, and if Aria refused to entrust some of her less essential affairs—private or syndicate—to qualified subordinates, she would break under pressure. Soothingly, Rashira asked her to release her iron grip on them for a while and allow them to _propitiate_ her. 

The malleable idea churned in Aria’s thoughts. She felt open, disadvantaged, and exposed as they restrained and fucked her, but if she had not trusted her dancers they never would have seen this arrangement manifest at all. They had never betrayed her, never done her ambitions a disservice for personal gain. They, if no one else, had earned her favor. And it felt _good_ to have this again, to be filled by beautiful bedmates daring enough to brave all her deadly thorns solely to deify her, to warmly occupy her with pleasure. 

For the first time in weeks, Aria relaxed. Her fists unclenched and she gave a shallow sigh while succumbing to the temptation of self-indulgence, and permitted herself to be swallowed up by Rashira’s emboldening pace and how she was being rougher with her now, knowing that Aria’s proclivity for roughness aroused her nearly as much as it did herself. She spared no expense in delivering her a thorough experience. 

Every thrust sent her rocking forward along the sheets as athletic hips slapped against her backside, heightening each arresting jolt of pleasure that occasionally ripped the sound from her moans and rendered them trembling sighs. Nails trailed down the curves of her waist, their paths growing jagged from the constant motion. Mireia watched with great interest from where she rested on the bed nearby, but she didn’t mind. Aria weathered it as she had in the past, her voice laced with hushed curses interjecting growls of _harder_. 

She sought satisfaction only. All other issues seemed comparatively muted in the licentious haze of her thoughts. 

Aria's teeth closed around a small ridge in the sheets as Rashira’s withdrawals brought with them her own wetness that painted her inner thighs whenever the angle of reentry changed, and she _yearned_ for additional care from Rashira’s hands, which were presently too preoccupied with holding her in place as she drove deeply, to be of much service. 

“You’re needed _elsewhere_ ,” she managed to dangerously hiss. 

Rashira interpreted her meaning with fluency and slid one hand between her legs. Though she tried to deftly supply what Aria wanted, she did not sacrifice the force she imbued her thrusts with. Her touch was then reduced to pressure in that crushingly limited space between Aria’s pelvis and the bed, but in the end, it sufficed. 

Aria came as soon as Rashira happened to angle herself perfectly against her front, unable to contain or stall the intense fluttering of her inner muscles once it began. She hadn’t even recovered her voice until it was half over, when involuntarily pulling at the thick intrusion inside her began to verge on painful. A short, stiff cry departed her and devolved into several vocal breaths, each muffled by the bed Nyrissa graciously kept her face pressed into. 

Rashira held her there for fractions of an eternity while Nyrissa kissed her nape and shoulders as if in apology. Gradually they felt Aria calm to a state not observed previously, which was a great achievement in itself, but they knew better. Their judgement was reinforced when Nyrissa released her and Aria brought her forearms beneath herself. She held the weight of her torso upon them, already preparing to regain her posture.

“If you can still hold yourself up like that,” Rashira caressed her with bare words, only pausing to kiss Aria between her shoulder blades, “then I don’t think we’ve done our job properly yet.”

Aria groaned when Rashira withdrew from her, partly from the loss, and partly at the idea of enduring more. At this rate, the bruises and soreness left from her battle and those obtained tonight would become indistinguishable. She heard Rashira beckon Mireia closer. There was whispering, and when Mireia gave an affirmative reply there came an audible shifting on the bed and an assortment of additional sparse noise.

Rashira laid a hand on Aria’s lower back, stroking her heated skin. She said nothing to her and merely massaged her a while until Aria felt them lifting her hips and legs temporarily from the bed, and when they set her down again, Aria’s legs did not rub along the familiar high thread count of her sheets, but the texture of a bath towel. 

“Mireia’s going to take care of you this time,” Rashira informed her. She brushed her lips against the tips of her crest. “And I’m going to replace Nyrissa.” 

True to her word, she wrapped her arms around Aria’s and pressed her down, carefully but insistently, until she returned the side of her face to the bed. It wasn’t like the previous dancer’s grip on her. Rashira restricted the movement of her arms much more efficiently, and Aria was certain that if she were to break free, she would require nothing less than her biotics. Brute strength would get her nowhere with the commando. 

“She’s tensing again,” came Mireia's droll tone from somewhere behind her. “She’s knows what’s coming. This isn’t going to work out.”

“I’m not tensing,” Aria growled. Even if she had told the truth, her claim was refuted the instant she felt it; an intimate touch, cold and wet with something recognizable, pushing elsewhere. She inhaled suddenly and flexed the muscles in her arms until they became like concrete in Rashira’s grasp.

“It’s okay,” Rashira told her. She said more, complimenting how well Aria had done before, and how they were committed to making her feel wonderful. 

Mireia resumed before Rashira had finished speaking. With a small application of pressure she slipped the tip of one slick finger into her, and Aria hissed an item of profanity so scalding that even Mireia would be hesitant to repeat it. 

“I told you this wouldn’t work,” she said to Rashira. 

She ignored her, opting to ask Aria directly, “Are you okay?”

Aria loathed to hear them depreciate her, even if their intentions were benign. “Of course I’m okay,” she replied with untempered hostility. “I’ve been having sex since before your mothers were born. Fuck you. Asking me if I’m _okay…”_

“She still seems a little tense to me.” 

She could hear Mireia’s insolent smile. 

“But… Aria knows herself best.” 

Another teasing press brought her to the second knuckle, and Aria thought she tasted blood when her teeth sank into her lower lip. Mireia was gentle despite her provocations, withdrawing gradually and pushing forward again with equal mindfulness of Aria’s comfort. 

She started to relax again after releasing her swelling lip and accepting her, but Mireia thought it necessary to enlist extra help from Nyrissa, who rejoined them and aided Mireia in turning Aria partially onto her side, leaving her chest against the bed with her waist pivoted enough for Nyrissa to slide a hand between her thighs and part her sensitive folds with a pair of fingers. Soon Nyrissa was inside her as well, albeit from a separate approach, establishing a lax rhythm easily replicated by her accomplice. 

Aria strained against Rashira’s unyielding grip on her as she moaned. Unbearable heat crawled up from her core to her throat and face, and raced through her spine in intoxicating shivers. When Mireia added a second finger her expelled breath dissolved into a whimper. She futilely tried to swallow the sound, failing so dismally in the endeavor that her dancers heard it again after several thrusts terminated with the removal of Mireia’s fingers and their replacement with something more ample. 

“She _likes it,”_ Nyrissa appreciatively murmured when Aria clutched at her fingers, too distracted by Mireia penetrating her to supervise her own reactions. The dancer curled her digits for encouragement. This time Aria deliberately squeezed around them, trying to restrict future movements. 

“I would hope so,” breathed Mireia, sliding her long elegant legs against Aria’s as she guided her hips further into her lap. “I don’t exactly plan to die tonight…”

“If you don’t just shut the hell up and fuck me you will,” Aria retorted. Her voice was sharp and tight, carrying a wavering undercurrent of unease and restlessness. She did not require a mirror to know the charcoal hue of her eyes.

Finally Mireia rocked her hips back, then forward again. The first thrust alone had Aria momentarily forgetting how to breathe, and those that followed reminded her how to gasp. 

Mireia’s bravery grew proportionally with each passing second where she did not witness Aria’s legendary, warlord-killing biotics flaring up to put her through the nearest wall. She progressively quickened their pace, influencing the urgency of Aria’s moans and hissed curses, the frequency with which she would toss her head to one side or the other, and how often the tendons in her fingers flexed and rested. 

Nyrissa eased a third finger into her and stroked her with a thumb. The effect was more or less immediate. Aria lowered her face to the bed, trying to silence the climb in octave that corrupted her voice, until she collapsed beneath the pacifying pressure of Rashira’s hold, the force Mireia employed as if returning their recent engagement in full, and the appeasing complimentary stretch Nyrissa provided within her. She relinquished herself to them as she crested, tousled about directionless and disoriented, obliterated into quivering shrapnel of primal drives and sensations and loss of higher cognizance. 

When it was over, Aria concerned herself with manually catching her breath. Her bones felt as if they had been liquified. Even when she regained custody of her arms she could scarcely bring herself to use them, instead deciding to remain limp and blissfully dazed for as long as the insides of her skull swam feverishly. 

Longing hands were all over her, making love to her, consoling her, adoring her. They kissed her and asked her how she felt. 

Aria preferred not to answer. But deeming them deserving of a reply, she uttered a very brief, _“Fuck…”_  

Rashira wrapped her in warm tones when she said, “Good.”

* * *

Lazy tendrils of smoke floated to the ceiling as Aria removed her cigarette from her parted lips, tapped some ashes into the tray on her nightstand, and peered absently at the far wall. Mireia was lost to a dead sleep against her side, curled up in one of the bathrobes Aria had distributed among them. Nyrissa occupied her other side, keeping one arm draped over Aria’s middle where she sporadically played with the silky material of her robe, tracing over the black and red patterning. Further on, toward the foot of the bed sat Rashira. She had folded Aria’s legs over her lap and presently contented herself with massaging her calves. Her skin was soft and warm from their shower.

“The party’s ending soon,” Aria remarked and interrupted the serene silence, but she maintained a courteously low volume for Mireia. “About half an hour to go.”

“Did you have a good time?” asked Rashira. She smiled with insinuation when their eyes met. “It was your party, after all.”

Aria idly held her cigarette near her jaw, her elbow and wrist bent at such angles that professed wry amusement. 

Nyrissa leaped at the opportunity to tease, “So what did you think? Did we treat you _royally_ enough?”

“Well, I certainly received the extolling I deserved.”

“Doing this was good,” Rashira mused aloud. She returned her gaze to Aria’s leg where she continued to knead her fingertips into her muscles. “For us, I mean. I think it brings us closer. I’m sure you value things like that.”

Aria said nothing, but Rashira was correct. Though Aria had achieved much and earned much, her syndicate would endure difficult trials over the next several years while Aria established herself as a permanent power. Staying focused and keeping her legions loyal in the meantime was imperative. It was wise to invest in regular camaraderie-building exercises such as this. If she provided for her dancers, and if they loved her, exchanged that love with her, their allegiance would never wane. 

“What do you think, Aria?” she heard Nyrissa ask her. “Now that you’re the queen… Are heirs on your mind? Would you ever bond?”

Aria scoffed at the fantasy. “I don’t take bondmates. And, contrary to popular belief, it’s not because I’m some unfeeling obelisk. My true reason is that no one could ever hope to shoulder the… substantial demands of my life.” She vaguely gestured with the hand that held her cigarette before drawing on it again.

“What if you met someone who could?” Rashira curiously inquired. 

Before Aria assembled her response, Nyrissa was already speculating. “I heard that you have a thing for the female aliens.”

“Aria would need someone… capable,” said Rashira. Her hands pleasantly roved down to Aria’s ankle and worked the joint. “And strong. Someone she trusts, someone who can handle her, who can get her to relax. It took _three_ of us just to do that, but… it’s a big galaxy, Aria.” 

“Yes, and I’ve been playing in it for centuries.” 

They were all young. She forgave them for not grasping something as equally complicated as it was simple. And someday they would leave her, perhaps after emerging from maidenhood, to either remain employed in some other profession for her syndicate or departing the station altogether once their votive flames of wanderlust had been quenched. 

If all went as planned, Aria would still be planted on her throne, surrounding herself with decadence and power. A solitary icon indulging in pleasures like those she enjoyed tonight, acquisition of wealth, and violence, to the very end of time. 

Aria reclined against the pillows at her back, gazing at the metallic sheen of her ceiling and deciding it was a faultless way to live and to die, whether that death would be of the permanent variety or those impermanent ones she invited unto herself. 

Death brought her new names and to new places. She died during decisive battles as often as she died during sex, when some primordial fuse inside her ignited an insatiable urge to burn herself to the ground. To melt down her bones and flesh and recast them as an ingot of something greater, something with impossible luster. Something worthy of her own expectations. 

 _Queen_ wasn’t all that far off from them.


End file.
